The Damned Utd (7 page)

Broken hearts and salted wounds –

Your glass breaks against his lounge wall, you are drunk and crying, shouting:
‘Least we’d have fucking won something
.’

‘
But we’d still be in the bloody Third Division,’ says Peter
.

You shake your head: ‘This rate, we’ll fucking pass them on our way down
.’

‘
Brian, listen to me,’ he says. ‘Hartlepools was just a bloody stepping stone,
always was and always will be. This time next year we’ll be promoted as fucking
Champions. And that’ll just be the start of it. You wait and you see
.’

You look up. You dry your eyes. You ask him, ‘Do you promise me, Pete?
’

‘
Cross my heart,’ he nods. ‘Cross my heart, Brian
.’

‘
If you promise,’ you tell him, ‘then I believe you
–’

Promises made and hearts healed –

Peter puts his arms around you, and your wives pick up the pieces
.

Impeachment, impeachment, impeachment and the return of George bleeding Best.
Bestie
. Turning out for Dunstable Town and beating Manchester United 3–2. I’ve got a smile on my face and the radio on as I drive; a smile on my face until I see him, see Bestie by the side of the road, larger than life, any life –

His head full of demons; his own throat cut
…

To sell them Brylcreem. Double Diamond beer and pork sausages.

They hate flair round here. Hate and fucking loathe it. Drag it out into the street and kick it in its guts, kill it and hang it from the posts for all to mock and see, from the motorway and the railway, from the factories and the fields, the houses and the hills –

Elland Road, Leeds, Leeds, Leeds –

Yorkshire. Nineteen seventy-four –

His own throat cut
–

There is always a war coming, and England is always asleep.

* * *

You are bloody lucky not to have been sacked. Fucking lucky. Except you
don’t believe in luck. Talent and hard work. That’s what you believe in. Ability
and application. Discipline and determination. That’s what got you from
Clairville
Common to Great
Broughton
. From a fitter and turner at ICI to
centre-forward at Middlesbrough Football Club and then captain of
Sunderland. That’s what got you your 251 league goals in 274 games, got you
your eighteen hat-tricks, your five four-goal hauls, and that’s what’s going to
save you and Derby County
–

That’s what’s going to get you what you want
–

Ability and application. Discipline and determination –

No such thing as luck. No such thing as God. Just you, you and the players
–

Peter reads out the pre-season team sheet; names like McFarland, O’Hare,
Hector and Hinton. Peter puts down the team sheet. Pete says, ‘Just two things
missing now: a good bloody keeper and a bit of fucking experience
.’

‘
And where are we going to find them?’ you ask him. ‘Not round here
.’

‘
Don’t you worry,’ says Peter. ‘I know just the keeper and just the man with
the experience we need
.’

* * *

There’s another friendly tomorrow, another away game, my second game in charge. I stand at the far edge of the training pitch and watch them practising their set pieces, their corners and their free kicks –

Like clockwork
.

Jimmy Gordon comes over. He says, ‘Thought we’d knock it on the head, if that’s all right with you, Boss?’

I look at my watch. It’s not there.

‘Half eleven,’ says Jimmy. ‘Anything you want to say to them before we finish?’

I shake my head. I tell him, ‘What’s to say?’

Jimmy shrugs his shoulders. He starts to walk back towards the team.

‘Jimmy,’ I call after him. ‘Ask Eddie Gray to come over here, will you?’

Eddie’s played in just one of the last forty-five Leeds games. He’s in his purple tracksuit with his name on the back, sweating and out of breath. He says, ‘Mr Clough?’

‘Boss to you,’ I tell him and then I ask him, ‘You fit?’

‘I think so,’ he says.

‘Think’s no good to me,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to know so.’

‘Well then, I know so,’ he laughs. ‘I know so, Boss.’

‘Good lad,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll give you a run-out tomorrow night then.’

Eddie sprints back over to his mates as someone shouts, ‘You off and all then?’

* * *

‘
Me go and sign Dave Mackay? You must be bloody joking, or fucking drunk?’
you told Peter
.

‘
You’ve pulled off bigger things than this,’ he lied. ‘Just go and try
.’

‘
He’s off into management,’ you told him. ‘Hanging up his boots
.’

‘
It’s only 99 per cent certain,’ Peter lied again
.

And so off you set. Just you. Not Pete
–

You in your car to sign Dave Mackay
–

Dave Mackay, the legendary Scottish wing-half with Tottenham Hotspur
–

Tottenham Hotspur, the legendary 1960–61 double-winning Spurs
–

The double-winning Spurs of the legendary Bill Nicholson
.

So here you are at White Hart Lane, London. Been here since half seven
this morning. You want to speak to Bill Nicholson, but no one knows who you
are. Never heard of you. No one gives you the time of day. So you sit in your
car in their car park with the radio and the cricket on and you wait; wait and
wait and wait, in the car park in your Sunday best, wait and wait and wait
until you see Bill Nicholson
–

Bill Nick, manager
of Tottenham
Hotspur, an inspiration and an idol to you
.

‘
I’ve come to sign Dave Mackay,’ you tell him
.

‘
As far as I know,’ says Bill Nick, ‘Dave’s off back to Edinburgh tomorrow.
He’s off home to Hearts to become assistant manager
.’

‘
Can I have a word with him?
’

The phone is ringing in Bill
Nick’s
office. Bill turns and, as he leaves me,
he says, ‘Mackay’s training, but you’re welcome to wait
.’

So you wait again, wait and wait and wait, in the passageway outside the
office, you wait and wait and wait until you hear the studs and then the voices
.

Dave Mackay is older than you and he looks it. He marches straight up to
you. Hand out. Grip firm
–

‘
Dave Mackay,’ he says. ‘And who the bloody hell are you?
’

‘
My
name’s
Brian Clough and I once had the pleasure of playing for
England against you in an Under-23 match,’ you tell him
.

‘
I do remember you now,’ laughs Dave Mackay. ‘You had a beautiful black
eye, a right bloody shiner
.’

‘
Well, I’m the manager of Derby County now and I’m building a team
there that will be promoted this season and be First Division Champions in
three years
.’

‘
Congratulations,’ laughs Dave Mackay again. ‘Now what can I do for you?
’

‘
You can sign for Derby County,’ you tell him. ‘That’s what
.’

‘
No chance,’ he says. ‘I’m off home to Hearts tomorrow as assistant manager
.’

‘
Tell you what then,’ you smile. ‘You go off and get yourself a nice hot bath
and then we’ll have a nice little chat about it. Never know your luck
.’

But luck’s got nothing to do with it. No such thing as luck –

Dave Mackay has his bath and then Dave Mackay takes you into the players’
lounge at White Hart Lane, London. It is immaculate. Ladies in aprons
bring you tea and sandwiches in china cups and on china plates. Then Dave
Mackay takes you out onto the pitch at White Hart Lane and sits you down
on the turf by the corner flag
–

The stands and the seats immaculate. The sun shining on the pitch
–

It is a beautiful place. It is a beautiful day
.

‘
Derby is a sleeping giant,’ you tell Dave Mackay. ‘But since I arrived at the
place, the crowds have already jumped to 20,000. The town backs me, the fans
back me and, more importantly, the board back me 100 per cent. There’s money
for class and for skill and the wages to pay players with both; players like you
and players like Roy McFarland
.’

‘
Roy who?’ asks Dave Mackay
.

‘
McFarland,’ you tell him. ‘He’s the next England centre-half, I’m telling
you. Forget Jack Charlton. Forget Norman Hunter. Their days are numbered,
mark my words. Alan Hinton, he’s another of mine. Great winger and, now
he’s with us, he’ll be back in that England side, Ramsey or no bloody Ramsey.
And Kevin Hector? You must have heard of Kevin Hector?
’

‘
Vaguely,’ says Dave Mackay. ‘Didn’t he play for Bradford Park Avenue?
’

‘
He did that,’ you tell him. ‘But now he’s with us and you just can’t stop
the lad scoring goals. Not for love nor money
.’

‘
Where did you finish last season?’ asks Dave Mackay
.

‘
Eighteenth
.’

‘
Eighteenth?’ he laughs. ‘I’m very sorry, Brian. But I just wouldn’t come to
you. Not for ten thousand quid. Sorry
.’

‘
I’ll give you ten thousand quid, here and now, in cash
.’

‘
No chance,’ he laughs again. ‘I’m off to Hearts tomorrow. That’s that
.’

‘
What would you come for then?’ you ask him. ‘If not ten grand?
’

‘
I’d consider fifteen
.’

‘
I can’t get fifteen
.’

‘
Then you’re wasting your time,’ he says. ‘You might as well get off home
.’

You look at Dave Mackay sat in the sunshine on the pitch at White Hart
Lane, with its players’ lounge and its china cups and its china plates; Dave
Mackay, the greatest wing-half of his day; Dave Mackay, about to hang up his
boots for a seat on the bench and a manager’s suit
–

You look at Dave Mackay and you tell him, ‘I can get you fourteen thousand
and, better than that, I can keep you playing
.’

Dave Mackay looks down at the grass on the pitch at White Hart Lane,
then up at the stands and the seats, and then Dave Mackay sticks out his hand
and says, ‘Done
.’

* * *

In
his
corridors, in
his
shadows, they are waiting again; Maurice Lindley and Syd Owen –

Behind my back. Under their breath. Behind their hands. Through gritted teeth, they whisper –

‘He’s never really going to buy this lad McKenzie, is he?’

‘Turn this place into a bloody circus,’ they murmur –

‘A bleeding pantomime,’ they hiss.

I slam
his
door, I turn my key. In
his
office, at my desk –

I pick up
his
phone, I dial –

‘Is that Duncan McKenzie?’

‘Yes, this is he.’

‘This is Brian Clough speaking,’ I tell him. ‘Now listen to me, you go get your coat and your skates on because you’re coming to meet me at the Victoria Hotel in Sheffield. Half an hour and you’d better not be bloody late. And Duncan?’

‘Yes, Mr Clough?’

‘Bring a bloody pen because you’re fucking signing for Leeds United today.’

* * *

You leave London behind.
Thank Christ
. You drive straight back to the
Baseball Ground
. Home sweet home.
You sing and shout all the way
–

Nailed it. Nailed it. Nailed it
.

Peter is waiting. Pete is wondering, ‘Any luck?
’

‘
Fuck luck,’ you tell him. ‘He’ll be here tomorrow to put his pen to our paper
.’

‘
I don’t bloody believe it,’ shouts Peter. ‘Never thought you had a prayer
.’

‘
Fuck your prayers and all,’ you tell him. ‘Just believe in me. Brian Clough
.’

‘
I do,’ says Pete. ‘You know I do
.’

* * *

Duncan McKenzie is waiting for us in the posh lobby of the Victoria Hotel, Sheffield. He’s looking at his watch, biting his nails and chain-smoking. I walk across that lobby and tell him, ‘Forget Derby County. Forget the Spurs. You’re coming to Leeds for
£
200 a week.’

Before he can reply or light another fag, I take him by his hand and waltz him into the bar. Duncan doesn’t drink, but he will do today –

Champagne
–

‘Congratulations,’ I tell him. ‘You’re my first signing for the new Leeds United.
My
Leeds United; honest and sincere, playing with flair and with humour, winning with style but winning the “right” way and winning the admiration of Liverpool fans, Arsenal fans and Derby fans, Tottenham and Birmingham fans –

‘Because of THE WAY WE PLAY,’ I tell him once, twice, three times.

Duncan McKenzie lights another cigarette and says, ‘Yes, Mr Clough.’

‘There’ll be no more codding referees. No more haranguing referees. No more threatening referees. No more bloody bribing referees either,’ I tell him.

Another cigarette, another ‘Yes, Mr Clough.’

‘No more
dirty
fucking Leeds!’

‘Yes, Mr Clough.’

‘And Duncan …’

‘Yes, Mr Clough?’

‘You call me Boss from now on.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

I order another bottle of champagne. I go for a pee. I come back and change seats. I move round the table and sit down next to Duncan. I put my arm round him. I tell him, ‘You’re going to be my eyes and ears in that dressing room.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘My eyes and ears.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘They hate me,’ I tell him. ‘Despise me. And they’ll hate you too. Despise you. But we’ll be here long after they’ve all gone.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Do you know why they hate me?’ I ask him. ‘Why they’ll hate you?’

‘No, Boss. Why?’

‘Because we’re not like them,’ I tell him. ‘Because we don’t fucking cheat like them. Because we play fair and we win fair.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Do you know how many bloody goals I scored when I was playing?’

‘I’m sorry, Boss, I don’t.’

‘Two hundred and fifty-one,’ I tell him.

‘That’s great, Boss.’

‘You know how many fucking games that took me? League games?’

‘I’m sorry, Boss, I don’t.’

‘Have a guess.’

‘But I’m sorry, Boss, I –’

‘Go on, have a bleeding guess.’

‘Three hundred.’

‘Two hundred and seventy-four,’ I tell him. ‘Just 274. Now what do you fucking think about that then?’

‘Is that a record, Boss?’

‘Course it bloody is,’ I tell him. ‘You know anyone else who’s scored 251 goals in 274 league games, do you? Bobby bloody Charlton? Jimmy fucking Greaves? They score that many bloody goals in so few fucking games, did they? Did they bloody hell. So course it’s a fucking record and it’ll always be a fucking record because there’ll never be another one like me. Never. Ever. Not you. Not no one. Now drink up because we’re off to meet the press –’